Point of Contact
by Slightly Sinister Sinestra
Summary: HPRonin crossover. After the 1st fall of the Dark Lord, Moody goes ahunting runaway Death Eaters in Europe, and gets some aid of the Muggle persuasion.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Do I look like JK to you? Or Frankenheimer?

Rating: T - Thus far.

Summary: Requires some knowledge of the film Ronin (with Robert de Niro + Jean Reno). After the 1st fall of the Dark Lord, Moody goes a-hunting run-away Death Eaters in Europe, and receives some help of the Muggle persuasion. I wrote this in tandem with a fan of Ronin. We decided to meld our interests for this fic.

Chapter 1

Rendez-vous

The Cafe du Sol was filling up as the 8:30 from Lyon pulled in. A stream of humanity flowed by the plate glass windows; tourists, families, businessmen; people of every possible denomination. The man in the corner booth watched them idly, hands wrapped around the warmth of a coffee cup. His survey went unregarded: few paid attention to the quiet fellow in the rumpled coat whose eyes skipped over them in search of something on which to focus his gaze. Each went on about their own business, oblivious. As they were meant to.

Across the way, in the Creperie Martin, another man watched the incoming traffic, with more apparent interest. It was to him that Vincent's eyes returned after every sweep. The mark. Or rather, the mark's contact. The mark himself had yet to show. It shouldn't be long more, though, judging by the avid expression on his opposite's face.

'Excuse me? Is this seat taken?' Vincent looked up at the source of the gruff voice. The old man stood at the edge of the booth, breakfast tray in hand, his one workable eye on Vincent. The other one was obviously glass, and a bit loose in the socket if the way it was jiggling around was anything to go by. He shifted uneasily under Vincent's regard, balanced somewhat precariously on what looked to be a wooden leg. _Been through the wars, this one,_ Vincent thought, and was suitably wary because of that. He nodded towards the other side of the table. 'No, it's free.'

The old man sat down, nodding his thanks. 'Sorry. Everywhere else was full.' Vincent shrugged. '_Pas problem._ You are in from Lyon?' His new companion shook his grisled head. 'No,' he said brusquely, caution evident. Again, Vincent shrugged, and let it so. After a moment, the other relented. 'Sorry for my rudeness. I'm only waiting for a friend. It's been a long couple of days.' Waiting for a friend? Alarm bells were beginning to sound for Vincent. For an old man with a missing eye, shaky on his feet, the movements of his hands around the food were competent and sure. Vincent shifted slightly, freeing himself to move if need be. His companion ignored him, focused on his food. But the glass eye seemed to drift to the mark's contact across the thoroughfair unnervingly often.

'Pardon, Monsieur? You are English?' he queried, a curious stranger, innocent in his regard. The old man's movements stilled briefly as he looked up. 'That obvious?' he asked with strained lightness. Vincent shrugged. He had found it often to be an adequate response. 'Yes, actually. I am English. I come to France to see a friend. You?' Vincent tried out a smile. '_Non. Francais_, born and bred. And proud of it.' A smile in return, a nod of acknowledgement, before the other man bent himself once more to his meal with a single-minded intensity that brought an amused and slightly awed smile to Vincent's face.

Vincent tried another conversational gambit, trying to draw out the taciturn stranger. 'Your friend?' stilling of movement again noted. 'He is also English?' An assessing glance was sent his way before the meal again became the other man's focus. 'Why do you ask?' A friendly smile, another adequate response. 'It is nothing, only that you seem not to speak French so well. _Pardon. _Forgive me if I insult you.' Another assessing glance. Vincent kept the friendly, open smile that was his second nature, the best of disguises. At last, the other relaxed slightly in his presence, though the inherent wariness was never far away. 'No. Pardon me. I am being rather rude. No insult was taken. My ... friend ...' He paused as, in the Creperie Martin, a commotion arose. All eyes gravitated towards it, none so quickly as those of Vincent and his companion. Inside the other cafe, a vicious arguement had broken out between one of the patrons, and a red-haired man clutching a woman possessively. From along the thoroughfair came the unmistakable sound of a _gendarme's_ whistle. Swiftly, the contact had assessed the situation, and was making a calm, yet hurried, exit.

'_Merde!'_ Vincent rose to leave. His sentiment was echoed, in English, by his companion. Vincent glanced at him sharply, but the old man's gaze was focused on himself as he riffled through pockets. 'No damn change!' he muttered. A quick glance out the window, noting the contact's absence, caused Vincent a further round of obscenities. Hurriedly, he pulled a fistful of change from his pocket, and laid it on the table in front of the old man. 'It's alright, _grandpere,_' he said. 'It's on me.' With that, he left in persuit of his target, leaving a confused but grateful old man in his wake.

Pas problem - No problem.

Non. Francais - No. French.

Pardon - rough approximation, forgive me, excuse me.

Gendarme - local police

Merde! - rhymes with bit, self-explanitory.

Grandpere - grandfather, term of respect for aged man.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: don't own.

Chapter 2

Decisions

Vincent followed his mark down an alley close to Sacre Cour.He was'nt sure if he was doing the right thing, but you went where the work took you. He looked around to see if he was being followed, a nagging suspicion that all wasn't right. Sam's words came back to him. "If there is doubt, there is no doubt". The first lesson. The mark turned left into a small bistro, ordered a beer and sat at the window. Merde! He couldn't get closer than this. If he followed him in he'd be made. The nagging suspicion that he was being followed became almost unbearable.He shrank into a doorway, took his pistol out and waited.

Moody followed the muggle.For a non-wizard, he was good at what he did. He knew Moody was there but couldn't find him. The mark had gone to ground in a bistro and was waiting to make his connection with his master. He really didn't have time to deal with the muggle and sort this problem out, but he had no choice. Moody moved fast. Take the muggle out of the picture first and everything else would fall into place. As he drew his wand a voice at his ear said "Don't make me kill you, friend. This one is mine." For an auror who believed in constant vigilance this was a sign. "If a muggle can get the drop on me, I'm getting too old to be active".

Vincent couldn't believe his eyes. Could this be the same old man he had talked to in the cafe? "You look like you have seen the bad side of the game so you have a choice." Vincent took a step back and thought furiously. "Walk away now and live or we'll dance the dance." The scarred old man did nothing. He just stood there and smiled.

Moody found all this rather amusing. He braced himself for what was to come and thought, "Right ya bastard, lets see how good you are". Moody cast a disarming spell and the weapon flew from the young man's hand. He took a step forward and turned, bringing his wand up, and as he did he met the barrel of a Walther PPK under his chin. "You're good, old man." Who was this man? "That one you can have for free, now stop getting in my way."

Merde! Merde! Merde! None of this was going to plan. Ten years of training, ten years of living on the edge and still an old man had got the drop on him.Vincent was trying to work out where to go from here when it all went to hell. The old man took a step back, turned towards the mark and was suddenly lost in a cloud of smoke, looking considerably more dangerous than he had before. There had been something, though, Vincent thought as he began to move. Shock, maybe. This wasn't going to plan, for either of them. But if it hadn't been the old man, then that left ... The mark! Vincent tried to follow the source of the smoke when he was hit from the side by what felt like a hot iron. He went down, vision tunnelling. _Merde!_

Moody was in the middle of trying to remove his muggle problem when his eye picked up a movement at the end of the alley. Moments later, a fog filled the area. Great! Bloody great! First a goddamn _muggle_ gets the drop on him, then he lets himself get distracted enough to allow the enemy to do the same. _Dammit, Moody_, he growled, stepping sharply to one side to avoid a hurled curse, _you've got to be more damned careful! _No sooner had he said this than he saw something to distract him again. The muggle was down. Dammit. Boy had no business being in this bloody place. He shouldn't have followed him. He shouldn't have let muggles get involved. Now the boy was paying the price of his mistake. He spun, firing off deterant curses into the magical fog, and moved to the fallen muggle. He was starting to come around, but the _reducto_ had taken a lump out of his arm. Severe blood loss. He would have to get him seen to. That meant he'd lose the mark. Ah,to hell with it. Pureblood arrogance wouldn't let the bastard stay low for long. He'd pick him up again. The boy's life was more important now. 'Hey, kid? You got somewhere safe we can go?' The muggle's bleary gaze met his, nodding an affirmative. Quickly, Moody dove into his mind long enough to grab the location, and they apparated out. He derived some mild amusement from the thought of how the muggle would react to _this._


	3. Chapter 3

How come no-one is reviewing this? Just tell us it's crap and we'll stop writing. It's not that difficult, you know! Anyway, here's the third chapter. _If_ you're interested.

Disclaimer: Don't own!

Chapter 3

Old Aquaintances

Moody looked derisively around the filthy backalley. He highly doubted this was the muggle's 'safe' place. He doubted it was _anyone's_ safe place. _Now_ what had gone wrong? Under his arm, the passenger shifted, briefly returned to conciousness. _'Merde_. Ou sommes-nous?' Moody grunted. 'Speak English! For pities sake, I've had enough damned french!' There was a moment's silence. Alastor thought the bastard had dropped off again. Then: 'I said where are we.' Oh. Right. 'You don't know? You sent us here.' 'What?' Moody clenched his free fist. 'Does the village _Jean-Pere_ ring any bells?' he growled. 'Bells?' Alastor counted to ten. 'I _meant_ do you know it.' 'No.' Frustrated, Alastor dropped him, but gently. 'Boy, I went into your head to get this location. You _do_ know it! Now, think your way through your injury before you die of bloodloss. _Jean-Pere._' The muggle looked blearily at him, but at least he seemed to be thinking. '_Jean-Pierre_?' he asked, the pronunciation subtly different. 'Yes!' 'Jean-Pierre is a person, a friend, not a village.' Alastor stared at him, then closed his eyes in exasperation. 'Dammit, stop thinking in bloody french! Fine. Lets go meet Jean-Pierre.' The boy started to make an objection, but a number of things caught up with him, not least of which the shock of apparation, and he lapsed back into unconsciousness. Great!

The paintbrush moved deftly over the model's surface, limning the edges of the ornate shoulder-plates. Jean-Pierre squinted through the magnifying glass at the tiny samurai, concentrating completely on the task. When he heard the sudden barking of the Alsations outside, he looked up in mild annoyance to check the monitors. His animals were standing facing a misshapen figure in the shadows. No. Two figures, one carrying the other. Checking the time-frame, he realised that they had hit the interior perimeter without ever tripping the outer sensors. That meant one thing, and one thing only. It was one of _those._

He moved sedately outside, calling his dogs to him. He raised a questionning eyebrow at the intruder. The man snorted. 'Don't look at me like that. I brought you one of yours. I think. He's not exactly coherent.' Jean-Pierre glanced at his burden, then strode forward. 'Vincent! What have you done to my boy?' The wizard looked at him. 'What do you mean what did _I_ do? He stuck his bloody nose in my business, and got hit for his trouble. And muggins here had to save him. Don't give me no gip. I've already had a time of it trying to translate french-thought long enough to find his 'safe place' before he bleeds to death. Which will happen soon if you don't bloody let us in!' Jean-Pierre looked at him, then at Vincent. 'Bring him to the house,' he commanded. 'And tell me what happened.' The scarred one looked at him, unsure. '_Vite! Vite!_ Before we lose him!' The wizard glared, then complied.

Alastor followed the old man into the house, grumbling. French! He hated the bloody language. But whatever language he made it in, the other had a point. It was a bit late for caution now, especially if it cost the boy his life. Inside the house the old man turned to Moody. 'Lay him in there.' He did, and the next half an hour was spent labouriously piecing the boy's rent limb back together. A bloody mess it was, too. The blasted _reducto_ had taken a fair lump out of him. When they were done, the french muggle led him into a sitting room, and moved to stand by the fire place. 'Well, what happened.' What happened! How do you explain to a muggle.'Well ...' 'Be aware I have had dealings with your world before.' Ah. Moody took this piece of information on board and decided to tell the story as it happened. What little he knew of it. He hadn't realised that Crompton had dug so deeply into the muggle underworld. He wouldn't have thought the pureblood bastard could have stood it. Shows how wrong you can be.'D'accord. C'est curieux. Et toi?'

'And me?' The muggle looked at him curiously. 'Qui est votre maitre?' Moody cast a quick translation spell, and switched to french, not liking this turn of the conversation. 'Je n'ai pas une maitre. J'ai ma mission ... et mes camarades.' Jean-Pierre smiled slightly. 'Ainsi! Vous ne comprennez pas? Vous etes un 'Ronin', non?' Taken aback, Moody pondered the term. A masterless warrior? It didn't fit him. There was too much ... chaos implied. He served order. Even if he didn't have a human master, he had that. 'Non! Je chasse les Ronin. La justice, c'est ma maitre.' The other shrugged. 'C'est tout que vous dites.' 'Vous ne croyez moi?' 'Pas d'importance. C'est que vous croyez.'

Moody stared for a moment, then shrugged the odd conversation off. He had things to do yet, not least of which was finding out where the hell he was, and who he was with. And there was only one person he knew who might know. 'I need to contact someone,' he stated. Jean-Pierre shrugged. 'The fireplace is over there. The Floo powder is in the Ming vase. Do try not to break it.' Moody stared. He had Floo powder? Who the hell _was_ this guy? Ah, hell with it. Remus had better bloody know something, or he was in deep trouble!

Vite! - Hurry

D'accord. C'est curieux. Et toi? - Fine. That's interesting. And you?

Qui est votre maitre? - Who is your master?

Je n'ai pas une maitre. J'ai ma mission et mes camarades. - I have no master. I have my mission and my comrades.

Ainsi! Vous ne comprennez pas? Vous etes un Ronin, non? - So! You do not understand? You are a Ronin, no?

Non! Je chasse les Ronin. La justice, c'est ma maitre. - No! I hunt Ronin. Justice, that's my master.

C'est tout que vous dites - (loose translation) if you say so

Vous ne croyez moi? - You don't believe me?

Pas d'importance. C'est que vous croyez. - Unimportant. It's what you believe.


	4. Chapter 4

Okay. Thanks to Erikskitty, who kindly reviewed this story, we've decided to put up another chapter. Thanks also to nna, who also reviewed. Enjoy.

Point of Contact

Chapter 4: Coffee Anyone?

Muttering beligerently to himself, Alastor took down the vase, _carefully_, and withdrew a fistful of Floo powder. Tossing it into the fireplace, he struggled to ignore the Muggle fieldman's bemused stare, and the old man's annoying air of superiority. If Remus didn't know these people, and couldn't reassure him they were on the level, then he wasn't sure if he could resist the temptation to Obliviate the smug bastard. Not that he'd need to Obliviate the injured man. With that concussion, he was lucky he could see straight. He probably thought all this was some kind of fever dream. Shaking his head, Alastor called up his werewolf comrade, looking forward to straight English, untainted by this incomprehensible french accent.

Looking confused, Remus appeared in the flames. "Alastor? Where are you? What's up?" At the sound of those anglisised words, Alastor gave a heartfelt sigh of relief. Finally!

"Remus? Salut! Ca va? Vous allez bien?" Alastor spun, to see Jean Pierre leaning forward in his chair to look at Remus with recognition and friendly interest. Remus smiled in surprised delight.

"Sensei! Salut! Une moment! Je viens!"

"What?" Alastor spluttered, but he was ignored as Remus climbed through, stepping out of the fireplace and brushing himself off before walking up to the frenchman and shaking hands like old friends. A string of enthusiastic french followed, which elicited an agonised groan from the beleagured Auror. Vincent, in his corner, merely blinked at the man from the fire, and dropped his aching head back into his hands. Alastor felt rather like joining him.

"Alastor? What are you doing here? Jean Pierre doesn't usually entertain wizarding guests, at least not without a recommendation from me or Arthur." Remus looked at him with mild interest.

"Arthur? As in Weasley? Married to Molly? What the bloody hell does _he_ have to do with this insane bloody frenchman?" Jean Pierre raised an eyebrow at this, but Alastor was past caring. _Someone_ had better explain things to him, and soon, before he was forced to exercise his interogation training! Remus looked about to answer, but Jean Pierre, possibly in polite revenge for the insane comment, caught the werewolf's attention again.

"How is Arthur, these days? As I recall, he was in the midst of a long and stormy arguement with his wife when we last spoke. Something about a name for their sons?"

Remus laughed. "Oh yes. It was a long, involved, and sometimes painful arguement, but he finally won. By sheer stubbornness, but he did it. They're heading for their sixth kid, at this point. Some stamina, has Arthur." Jean Pierre laughed. Alastor growled, but as the pleasantries wore on, he realised that there would be no answers from those two until they were good and ready. Snarling to himself, he stalked over to Vincent and plopped down beside him. The other man looked up at him, smiling wearily.

"At least," the injured man offered, "he is fully clothed this time." Alastor stared.

"Then ... You know about his ... furry little problem?" This was an odd developement.

The fieldman smiled a rueful little smile that told Alastor that yes, he had met the 'other' Remus. "Few people can hit a moving target, in the dark, at seventy paces. Even fewer see that target ignore it and keep coming. Even fewer again spend the night in a tree with a Glock pointed at this creature, and in the morning see it become a man, naked as the day he was born. At the time, I didn't really think this was an improvement." The pain and confusion from the head-injury were obviously receding, as the sentance structure improved. The _English_ sentance structure. That almost distracted the Auror from the subject matter, but not quite. It was quite a tale, and his estimation of the man went up. Not only had he gotten the drop on an experienced auror, but he'd faced down a werewolf long enough to see the dawn, and the transformation. He was right. Few men could claim that.

"Telling tales on me again?" Remus came over, smiling warmly at Vincent. "One would think you'd have gotten over it by now."

"It is not a thing one gets over easily," Vincent replied. "Besides, it is not a story I get to tell to many. My reputation would be irreperably damaged."

Remus looked slyly at Alastor, putting the auror instantly on alert. "You look impressed, Alastor. I would have thought it would take more to do that to you. Unless ... Unless he managed more. Did you encounter the second weapon too?" Alastor couldn't help the slight, chagrined wince, and the insufferable grin on the werewolf's face widened. The auror harumphed loudly, and pointedly avoided looking at either of them. Unfortunately, this brought his gaze onto the older frenchman, and his slight, knowing smile. Scowling angrily, Alastor stood, sidestepping Remus, and walked over to the fireplace.

"So how did you run into these guys, Remus? And how did Arthur? Tell me what is going on, werewolf boy, and it had better be good."

Okay, people, we know it's a short chapter, but we get into explanations next chapter, so we thought we'd better leave it here for now. We _are_ continuing this, okay? So could you review it, pretty please? With cherries on top. Thanks.


End file.
